


You Don't Own Me

by MistahJay (CassLikesFic)



Series: Gotham's Finest [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Duct Tape, F/M, Femdom, Femme!Joker, Forced, Forced Orgasm, Genderswap, Kidnapping, Kidnapping Roleplay, Knives, M/M, Masc!Harley Quinn, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape Roleplay, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation, Zip Ties, abduction fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/MistahJay
Summary: He knows what he told them both.He’s turned the fantasy over and over in his mind to the point where he can recite it by rote if needed. But he still feels the sickening clack of the tracks underneath him, can feel the car of this roller coaster climbing slowly up, up, up. He isn’t at the top yet, can’t see how far the drop will truly be.
Relationships: John Blake/Harleen Quinzel, John Blake/Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Series: Gotham's Finest [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529720
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> I overtagged this fic for the later chapters because, while everything that happens within is thoroughly negotiated between all parties and risk-aware consensual kink, there are elements that could be triggering. Please read with caution and awareness.

Joker said she’s thinking about it. 

Joker’s clowns are on a crime spree.

Banks are being robbed, computer stores. There’s clown activity in the warehouse district, the old abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of Gotham. The garment district, of all places, bolts of expensive cloth in a garish array of colors. Wide, painted red smiles are appearing on billboards around town, mocking the police with where she’ll strike next.

It’s been six weeks, and not a single jewelry store has reported as much as a shoplifted bracelet.

Every morning briefing makes Blake’s heart rate spike and his stomach drop into his shoes. Every evening, he commutes home without incident.

Blake sits on the train, staring through the graffitied windows, the sticky floors. Not seeing the ads above him, not noticing which ones have clownlike lipsticked mouths painted over them. He’s tired and irritable. He feels like a fool.

Blake unlocks his mailbox at the foot of his apartment steps, shuffles through the bills and junk without noticing them, tosses it on the table. A glossy mailer falls on the floor, and he picks it up mechanically, flips it over. It’s a happy couple, touching foreheads, the man fastening a diamond bracelet around the woman’s wrist. They both have wide red smiles drawn over the glossy paper. There’s one word scrawled between them, under the jewelry store’s slogan. “Wishes come true at Star Jewelers.” 

_ Soon. _

Blake can’t breathe.

* * *

Blake sees ads for Star Jewelers everywhere that week. None of them have painted clown smiles. Happy couples beaming at each other everywhere, decked in precious metals. All the perfect picture of traditional Gotham romance.  _ Wishes come true, wishes come true, wishes come true.  _ He can’t focus. He goes through the motions at work, shuffling paperwork around, answering calls. He searches for the store on his computer, memorizes the address, deletes his history in a guilty, cold sweat. He doesn’t tell any of the other officers about the tip off he received.

Soon could mean anything.

At the end of the week his phone rings. He’s not expecting Joker’s icy purr on the other end of the line, though.

“How has your week been, Detective Blake?” 

“More like how’s the last _month_ been,” he snaps, then instantly regrets it. There’s silence on the end of the other line, patient. Waiting. “...it’s been a tense week,” he responds at last.

“I can  _ only _ imagine,” she responds, and he hears laughter in her voice. “Consider this a courtesy call.”

“Thank you,” Blake responds warily. The phone feels hot against his ear. He stares at the badly-painted wall of his apartment. He can see streaks of the old paint showing through.

“You’ll have one more chance to change your mind after this.” Blake is so aware of the response of his body to her voice he can swear he can feel his blood rushing through his veins. The tops of his ears are burning. He can feel the ghosts of her fingers on his throat. His skin tingles with adrenaline, but there’s no one to fight or struggle against. Just a voice, who knows how far away. 

“I won’t,” he manages to croak out around the grip of those phantom fingers. “I won’t change my mind.”

“Tell me again.” 

“I want...what we talked about. I want it to happen.”

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow night.” His stomach twists itself up in sickening knots when the line disconnects. The fact that those words were  _ enough _ doesn’t bode well. Joker doesn’t like euphemisms and roundabout phrases. Blake shudders and scrubs his hands over his face, feels his stubble under his palms. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and steadies his breathing. 

He knows what he told them both. He’s turned the fantasy over and over in his mind to the point where he can recite it by rote if needed. But he still feels the sickening clack of the tracks underneath him, can feel the car of this roller coaster climbing slowly up, up, up. He isn’t at the top yet, can’t see how far the drop will truly be.


	2. Dread

The shop is peaceful, and the night is quiet. No broken glass crunches underfoot, no flashlights move in the well lit interior.

Blake feels like an idiot, swallows around his heartbeat, and stares at the displays in the store window. The diamond bracelet from the mailer he got glitters under a spotlight, undisturbed. “What were you expecting?” He mutters to himself, turning to check the alleyway around the back of the store, flashlight gripped in a sweaty hand. 

There's someone waiting.

Four goons in rubber masks are loading bags into an unmarked delivery van. A Gotham police officer is watching them do it, his back to Blake in the dimly lit street. Something isn't right here. Blake tries to speak, clears his throat, manages to bark out a rough, “Hey!” 

The officer turns, but in the shadowed alley and with his hat pulled low, Blake can’t see his face. The man tilts his head slightly to one side, and Blake sees the flash of a very white smile, a mouth painted with a red so dark it looks nearly black against white painted skin. He moves forward with an easy, loping stride that Blake knows no officer on the force walks with, shoulders loose, hands at his side. 

“There a problem, officer?” the man asks Blake with cheerfully false concern. Blake studies the man’s uniform, seeing the collar stained with old greasepaint. The cuffs are frayed, and there’s a button missing. It takes a moment, but Blake realizes it’s a dress uniform, stripped down. Blake feels his mouth fill with sour spit, adrenaline flooding his veins. 

“Police!” He yells sharply, raising his sidearm. “Freeze.” 

“Ignore him,” The man comments over his shoulder. The goons barely pause in their work. Blake hears the back doors of the van they’re loading slam shut with a sound of finality. “You don’t have to do this. You can walk away, right now.”

_ You’ll have one more chance to change your mind after this. _ Blake can feel Joker’s words echoing around his head. 

“Fuck you,” Blake spits out. He steadies his hands, narrows his eyes, keeps his gun trained on his target. 

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” the man in front of him murmurs, then rushes him. He strikes Blake’s wrist hard with the back of his hand and grabs the gun at the same time, twisting it in the opposite direction and wresting it from his hands. He moves with the ease of long experience. Blake realizes with a sinking feeling that whoever this man is, he’s had police or military training. He’s staring down the barrel of his own gun. “I’m going to keep this,” he continues quietly, indicating the wall with a small flick of the barrel. “Hands against the wall, officer.”

Blake presses his palms flat against the rough brick, waits until he hears the sound of the other man holstering his gun. Wills him closer. He breathes through the sounds of steps approaching, waits for the hand on his shoulder. Blake turns sharply, grabs the man by his lapels, and slams him up against the rough brick. Blake holds him there with his left hand and strikes out with his right, landing a solid punch that rocks that painted face to the side. Blake gets his hand on the man’s throat, tilting his face up into the light. The clown is laughing at him, his expression  _ pleased. _ He grabs Blake’s wrist, turns it sharply, uses the momentum to spin him around. Blake gasps at a sharp rabbit punch to his kidney, goes down to one knee. 

“You wanna fight, officer, we can fight,” he says with a soft, breathless laugh. 

“It’s  _ detective _ , actually,” Blake spits out, struggling to climb to his feet when a well aimed kick to his ribs sends him sprawling. 

“Well,  _ detective _ ,” there’s a knee at the small of his back. Blake can feel the weight bearing down on him as he struggles to get his hands under his shoulders, push himself up. A hand fists in his hair, yanking up sharply. “I think you should save your energy.”

“Fuck you,” Blake spits again, struggling against the painful grip on his hair, the knee pressing him into the dirty ground. The pain in the small of his back intensifies as the grip vanishes and the man adds more pressure on his knee, and then he hears the sound of tape being pulled off a roll.

“Gonna take you to the boss, first.” A rough hand yanks his arm out from under his body, then the other one. Blake struggles, swears, tries to swat blindly at the man pinning him, but the angle’s bad. He’s caught as though he’s no more trouble than a recalcitrant puppy. His arms are wrapped together with tape behind his back, forearm to forearm, multiple layers. Blake struggles against it until his shoulders burn, but it’s no use. “Up you go, c’mon.”

Hands fist in the back of Blake’s jacket, and even though he tries to keep his legs loose, going to dead weight in his his attacker’s hands, the man lifting him is strong. Blake’s hoisted easily, tossed against the wall, his face gripped painfully with one hand covering his mouth. “I’m gonna give you something to swallow, and you’re gonna be good and swallow it.” 

“Anything you put in my mouth, you’re gonna lose.” Blake growls darkly.

“Just a little something to make this go easier for you.” There’s the rattle of a pill bottle, and Blake tries to bolt from the wall, kicking out. He’s struck across the face hard for his trouble, a careless cuff that leaves his head swimming and vision blurred. While he’s stunned, the man’s thumb digs painfully into his cheek, fingers prying his mouth open and forcing something astringent and chalky between his teeth. “You’re gonna thank me for that later.” 

“Go to Hell,” Blake snarls, fighting not to swallow the bitter grit left in his mouth. Before he can spit what’s left of the pill onto the dirty pavement, the man slaps a piece of tape across his mouth. He pats Blake's cheek in a condescending manner, then tugs a bag over his head.

Blake goes by sound after that. He’s marched down the alleyway, pulse thudding in his ears. He tries to calm his breathing, listens to the squeal of the van door opening, is tossed inside like a sack of dirty laundry. He lands on his bound hands, fumbles in the dark interior. Feels rough carpet under his skin, then the motion of the van starts. He tastes bile in the back of his throat and waits, waits, waits, feeling a creeping heat begin to bloom under his skin. 

_ Okay _ , he tells himself.  _ You’re bound, drugged, gagged, and blindfolded in a back of a van, and you’re being taken to see the Boss.  _ He tries to figure out his assets, escape routes. He doesn’t know how many other goons are in the van with him. He doesn’t know where he’s going. His feet are free, but his arms are bound tightly enough that any movement is painful. He’s unarmed. No one even knows where he is - he’s not due into work for two more days, and he wasn’t scheduled for patrol tonight.

He’s  _ fucked. _


	3. Fear

Blake’s not sure what they gave him, but his thoughts get fuzzy and his mind quiets. His pulse is still drumming a steady, insistent beat, and his skin feels hot and tight. He’s too aware of the press of his clothing against his skin, the tape binding fabric tightly around his arms. He can’t pant for air behind the gag the tape makes over his mouth, but the quick pace of his breath through his nose makes him feel lightheaded. He’s rock hard and aching in his pants, and decides he can blame that on the pill, too. He’s not going to his goddamn death with a willing hard-on, that’s for fucking sure.

The drive goes on, and the adrenaline spikes even out into exhaustion that leaves him dozing off and on. He jerks awake in the darkness of the cloth covering his face, panics, struggles, settles, again and again. It takes an eternity. Blake’s managed to scoot around, leaning against what he hopes is a window, but knows isn’t. He can feel a smooth surface pressing against his cheek, but when he tries to feel for a door handle, there’s nothing he can grab. He kicks out a few times, feels his feet connect with something heavy and soft, kicks it a few more times, hears the rattle of metallic items clinking together. Swallows another mouthful of bitter spit. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. He can feel a bead of sweat trickle its way down between his shoulder blades - it’s too fucking warm in the back of the van. 

He makes what noise he can, but it’s muffled, frantic, and so low he feels like he’s just winding himself up further instead of alerting anyone. By the time the van stops and he hears the door slide open, he’s weak and exhausted. The back of his shirt sticks to him with sweat, and the cool air feels like heaven. He kicks reflexively at a strong hand on his ankle, tugging him towards the open door and that icy, waiting air. 

“Still got some fight in you?” A voice asks him from the darkness. Blake rankles at the amusement in it and kicks out again. Then rough hands grab and twist his leg, forcing him to roll or break his knee. He winds up face down, ass up, and spitting muffled curses as he’s hauled out of the van by his hips and set on his feet. There’s a metallic click, and then a knife blade digs into his back, thin and sharp, prodding. “Walk.” A tight hand on the back of his neck guides him, but every step into the darkness feels like walking off a cliff. 

Blake stiffens after a few steps when he feels concrete under his feet instead of gravel. There are muffled sounds of laughter around him, ribald jokes, comments. He smells cigarette smoke, old sweat.

“Whaddya got there, Harley?”

“Present for the boss.”

“Think they’ll let us have a go at whoever’s under there?”

“Boss doesn’t share, you know that.”

“Worth askin’.”

“Drop the haul off in the office, then get back to work.”

Blake goes hot and cold all over, stumbles, stops walking. He can’t swallow around his pulse and he starts struggling with the tape again, hears the laughter of the crowd. It’s cruel and angry.

“ _Walk_.” The voice hisses, next to his ear. “They see who you are, you’re a dead man. You go with me, you get out with your skin still attached. One foot in front of the other.” Blake can’t make himself start walking, but a rough shove to his lower back gets him moving again. He staggers through a long, winding hallway like a drunk, nearly falling once or twice. His feet are barely listening to him, and he’s truly panicked by the time the hand squeezes, make him stop, turns him. “Stairs. Up.”

5, 10, 15...Blake loses count, twisting around the floors, resting on landings briefly. He’s shaking all over by the time he hears a door open in front of him. He’s shoved into the room and the front of his legs hit something - a table, or a desk. The bag’s ripped off his head and Blake freezes, staring at the person across the desk from him. The “Boss.”

She’s sitting wearing a dark purple suit, the color of an old bruise. The lines are crisp, classic. The vivid orange vest he can see underneath clashes horribly. It’s a strange contrast to the sharp white of her face, the vivid red mouth, the blue triangles on her cheeks. Dark green hair falls in careless waves around her face as she bends her head to light a cigarette, inhaling for a long drag and letting the smoke out slowly. She waves a long fingered, strong hand impatiently, dissipating the smoke. Her eyes narrow slowly as she takes Blake in.

“What have you brought me?” She asks. Her voice is lower than he expected, husky.

“Police detective.” The man behind him answers, shoving him forward. Blake falls gracelessly onto the desk and stares up at her. She reaches forward and taps the tape over Blake’s lips, not bothering to take the cigarette out of her fingers. The embers glint, close to his eye.

“Let’s get your boring questions out of the way so I don’t have to bother taking this off.” She waves her hand in a vague gesture, and pitches her voice in a mockery of panicked babble. "Who _are_ we, what do we _want_ with you, why are we _doing_ this." Her mouth quirks up into an amused smile. “I’m Joker, that’s Harley. We don’t want anything from you that would require talking.” She cocks her head to the side and the smile becomes a warm, easy grin. “And we’re doing this because I think it’s funny, and because we _can_. So why don’t you just relax…” Joker runs a hand slowly through Blake’s hair. He jerks his head away, sharply, chest heaving. She chuckles, a low laugh that spears through him and turns his blood to ice water. “...and try to have a good time, Detective?”


	4. Pounding Heart, Sweating Hands

Joker makes a show of examining him. She grabs his chin, laughs when he jerks his head away, grips his face with firm fingers. Studies his dilated eyes, the flush spreading down his throat. 

“How long ago did you dose him?” 

“ ‘bout half an hour, forty five minutes. Drive wasn’t long.” Harley replies. Blakes mind reels at that. He thought they’d taken hours to get here. “Think he’s feeling it?” 

“I’d say so.” Joker muses, lifting Blake’s face. “Feeling warm, Detective?” He feels heat surge through him at that question, the flush on his face and ears deepening. It’s too warm in the room, that’s all it is. He shakes his head in too-frantic denial. She makes a thoughtful sound, rests cool fingers on the pulse in his neck. His heart is pounding like a trapped animal under her fingers. She squeezes lightly, thumb brushing the vulnerable, soft point under his chin. “Strip him and we’ll see.”

Blake isn’t going quietly. He waits for Harley to approach, straightens up, kicks backwards and catches Harley in the leg, not waiting for the confirmation of the man’s pained grunt before he steps back, shoving with his shoulder. His bound wrists complain painfully and he manages to get two steps back from the desk before he’s caught in Harley’s punishing hands. The fingers on his upper arms are tight enough to bruise. 

“Settle down,” the man chides, and a trickle of sweat makes it into Blake’s eyes, stinging. That’s all it is. It’s certainly not tears. Joker is watching Blake’s reactions, his struggles against Harley as he’s forced back against the desk. Harley’s hand is tight on the back of his neck. She takes it all in with naked interest, taps ash off the end of her cigarette onto a waiting tray. 

“Oh, let him fight. It’ll hit him faster.” Her bored tone is at odds with the interest glittering in her eyes.

Harley lets go of his neck, then smacks the back of Blake’s head with the flat of his hand, hard enough to make him wince. Blake yells behind the tape, muffled, frustrated sounds of protest when arms circle his middle, then jerk his pants and underwear down in one unkind motion that leaves him exposed. The other man presses an immovable forearm against his throat, pulls him up from the desk so he’s on display for Joker’s examination.

Blake closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to meet Joker’s gaze. He’s so hard it  _ hurts _ , skin slick with sweat, the flush spreading down his chest to his stomach and thighs.

“Nice.” Harley comments behind him. Blake’s stomach twists on itself, shame burning like molten metal through his veins.

“Not bad,” is Joker’s remark, and that’s worse, somehow. Who is he being compared to? He twists in Harley’s grip, fights against the hold. When the arm presses down on his throat again, making his vision go white behind his lids, Blake subsides. He takes deep, panicky gulps of air through his nose. Doesn’t open his eyes. If he can’t see it, it isn’t happening.

“Shirt, too? I’ll have to cut his arms free for that,” Harley asks Joker. The silence stretches long enough that Blake cracks his eyes open. He watches her set her cigarette aside, smoke stretching up from the ashtray. 

“Not yet,” Joker returns, thoughtfully. Blake is staring at her mouth, the lines of her face and jaw, those blue triangles stark and vivid on her cheekbones. He’d almost be glad to have the shirt off, free of the sweat-soaked fabric, have the chance to use his arms. “Too much fight in him for that right now.” She reaches out, wraps a hand tightly around his length, too tightly. He cries out behind closed lips and gritted teeth. “Go on, then. Struggle.” 

Blake can’t move much, trapped between the arm on his throat, Harley’s weight against his back, the line of the desk digging into his thighs. All struggling does is cut off his breath and push his cock into Joker’s hand, where she holds it still, gripping him so hard it hurts. When he shifts his hips to get away from her grip he just pulls back on her palm, dragging with delicious friction. Realizing that struggling is just making him fuck into her hand with short, helpless jerks, Blake makes a soft, humiliated sound and closes his eyes again tightly. Joker laughs with delight and he shudders, shaking his head in weak refusal.

“You must be close,” she says, voice softening with cruel sympathy. She exhales softly, and he can feel the warm gust of her breath, close to his stomach. “It’d be easier on you if you stopped fighting it, let go. But you’re not that sort of man, are you, detective? Can’t do anything the easy way. Even when you’re getting exactly what you want.” She punctuates her words with a rough twist of her hand, and that’s all it takes, and Blake is spilling over her fingers, hyperventilating and opening his eyes to stare at her in shock. She’s studying the mess he left on her palm with mild distaste. His face is hot with embarrassment and defeat.

Joker picks up her cigarette between the clean fingers of her other hand, takes a long drag, and then slaps him hard across the face with the sticky mess. It leaves him with a glistening handprint, warm against the burning skin. As it cools, she cleans the rest of it off on his hair, takes another drag from her cigarette, nods to Harley.

"Now you can free his arms," Joker says mildly. "He's not going anywhere." Blake sags against the desk, trembling and already growing hard again. He's choking on the thought that she might be right.


	5. Pins and Needles, Helpless Moans

Harley shoves Blake down against the desk with a hand to the back of his head, his face landing on a pile of cash and carelessly strewn jewelry. The sharp points of cut gems dig into his cheek, and Blake finds himself staring at a stack of crisp, banded bills. There’s the flick of a knife opening behind him and he goes very, very still. Harley’s hand grips the back of his neck tightly. Blake keeps his eyes on Joker.

“I’d bind him again after you strip him,” she comments nonchalantly. “But after that, do what you want with him. His face is already a mess.” Blake closes his eyes at that, takes a deep breath through his nose, tries to picture what he looks like. The wet outline of her fingers and palm is already cold and sticky on his cheek. The tape covers the lower half of his face, so he can’t snarl, can’t curse. Can’t even beg.

The knife saws through the layers of tape with difficulty, catching now and again. It takes forever until his arms are free. Blake is frozen, and then cries out behind the gag as feeling returns to his wrists and hands in sharp burning pins and needles. He’s too busy being consumed with the fire spreading up and down his wrists and fingers to protest or wriggle as his jacket and shirt are roughly stripped from him. Harley leaves his pants around his ankles, hobbling him, but for a moment he’s completely unrestrained. He could get up, fight, struggle. Except for the fact that his limbs are heavy, leaden, he’s still off balance and reeling from the orgasm Joker wrenched out of him. And he’s pinned by her gaze, those icy blue eyes cataloging every minute change of expression.

He feels like she can see right into his brain, watch everything swirling around inside in a muddy, red haze of pleasure and shame and adrenaline. He presses his forehead against the cool surface of the desk, lets the face of a designer watch dig into his cheek. Joker tsks softly, raises his chin with a cruel grip. Forces him to look her in the eyes while Harley puts Blake’s own cuffs on him. Blake curses the new riot tech from the GCPD as he feels it close inescapably around both his wrists. Double zip ties, extra thick, practically unbreakable. He can’t help moving his arms apart, testing how tight they are.

“Thanks,” Harley remarks, tightening any play out of them and striking Blake sharply on his bare ass with the flat of his hand. “Don’t want you getting loose, do we?” It stings more than his skin and he closes his eyes, tries to turn his face out of Joker’s vicelike grip. It doesn’t work. She brushes her thumb where his mouth would be, presses in on his bottom lip under the tape.

Blake hears rustling behind him, a hand brushing the side of his ankle as Harley rummages through the pockets of the pants tangled around his feet. There’s a startled bark of laughter, and Blake watches Joker’s attention shift to the man behind him. Her lips curl up in a deeply amused smile, and when she laughs at Blake’s expense, it sounds like glass breaking. She holds out her hand to Harley, takes the small, black jar and turns it over in her fingers, reads the label. Blake’s face is burning as he watches her open it, run a fingertip over the contents, and then rub her finger and thumb together thoughtfully.

“That  _ can’t _ be standard issue.” She murmurs, dragging her slick fingertip from the back of his ear to his throat, chasing the line of his jaw.

“It’s Friday night, and I found him in a back alley,” Harley says by way of explanation. He gets a tight fistful of Blake’s hair, Yanks his head up so Joker doesn’t have to. “Were you out looking for some rough trade against a brick wall? Smart, to be prepared. You never know what they’ll do when they get their hands on you.” 

"You're a pretty boy, detective. You could get anything you wanted with a smile. Only you don't like getting things with smiles and sweetness, do you?" Joker asks, soft as the rasp of silk over skin. Blake swallows hard, tries to avoid her eyes, avoid the way that merciless hand in his hair is getting him hard and aching again.  _ The pill, blame the pill, not your own fucked up kinks, Blake. Fight this. _ Joker reaches for the banded stacks of bills, taps them together with an efficient gesture, and uses them to prop Blake’s chin up. “Don’t wait on my account, Harley. Give him what he’s after.” Harley releases Blake’s hair and his teeth snap together behind the tape when his chin hits the cash. Joker leans back in the chair, props her feet up on the desk, and tosses the jar to Harley with a lazy, overhand arc.

Blake hears it land in Harley’s waiting palm, and when a dry fingertip brushes over his hole he scuffles his feet, struggles frantically, knees the desk underneath him to try and make it go  _ anywhere _ . He gets an iron grip holding him in place for his trouble, the span of Harley’s palm against the small of his back and pressing down a command, not a request. Blake squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers helplessly, feet scrabbling for purchase on the carpet. “You wanna end the night bleeding, or take it easy with the slick you brought to the party?” 

There’s something about Harley’s tone that makes Blake go cold and still. Because it sounds like he’s being offered a choice, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He can’t make a decision, and he’s riding too high on adrenaline to know what the right choice is. He doesn’t know if it’d be better to be hurt by this, have the comfort of  _ not my choice, not my fault, I didn’t like it _ . Blake looks at Joker, blinks slowly. Shakes his head helplessly.

"I see you.” She murmurs softly, cupping his cheek. There’s something in her hand, a red permanent marker, a distraction from Harley’s touch holding him open and exposed to the cold air. She doesn’t tell Harley to stop, and Blake makes another soft sound of protest, explanation. “I see you loving everything that's happening right now,  _ because _ it's rough, and dirty, and you can’t stop it." Her smile is gentle, tender even, understanding. At odds with the words that cut him to his core.

Joker uncaps the pen, shows it to him, then leans in. He feels the pressure of the marker against the tape over his lips. “Can I tell you a secret, pretty boy? You don’t  _ get _ a choice. You’re going to take everything that Harley’s going to give you, and you’re going to take it easily.” He can smell the fumes of the marker under his nose. “And you’re going to take it with a big smile on your face the whole time.” She caps the pen, gently taps his cheek with it. “I promise.” 

When Harley’s fingers chase over his hole again, they’re slick with the thick grease from the container, and Blake lets the desk take his weight, feels the stack of cash holding his chin up. He exhales slowly through his nose and braces himself as Harley starts roughly opening him up.


	6. Rough Treatment, Miserable Squirming

Harley works him open like he's an unfeeling toy made of molded silicone. A hole waiting to be slicked, not a person squirming and groaning low and broken behind a scrawled on smile. His fingers are rough, quick, too deep and not gentle. If he strikes a spot that makes Blake's hip jerk against his will, he doesn't waste time probing to chase it.

Blake's cock is trapped against the cold laminate of the desk and thinks this is the best thing that's ever happened to it. Blake, meanwhile, is frantically hoping that the thick grease worked into him with uncaring fingers is enough to do the job.

"How is it?" Joker asks as she lights up another cigarette. The flame jumps as she inhales. She clicks the lighter closed, tosses it onto Blake's back. The metal feels icy against his burning skin. A drop of sweat makes its way into his eyes. She sounds like she's sitting across the table in a restaurant, asking Harley's opinion on the specials.

"He's too tight," Harley answers. He sounds irritated, impatient with Blake. Like Blake is doing anything on purpose in this moment except curse whatever's flowing through his system and his too eager dick. "Quit tensing up," the man behind him snarls, and there's a sharp, punishing strike to his ass. Blake jerks, sucks in air through his nose, begs Joker with his eyes. He gets no mercy or sympathy there. The blows land with no rhythm, lazy spanks that leave his skin and face burning. By the time Joker answers, Blake is trying not to rut against the desk after each fierce, stinging slap. He doesn't give a damn if Harley thinks he's too tense, too tight. He wants this over, wants to go home to a cold shower and a world that makes more sense. Wants to come again.

"Make him come again, then." Joker sounds bored. "You'll get yours soon enough."

_ Anything but that. _

More grease (Christ, Harley has to have used half that jar by now) and fingers are sliding deep inside him, pressing apart slowly, making him burn and ache. He can feel the space between them, stretched open wide. He closes his eyes, groans helplessly, shudders. Joker leans in and folds her arms on the desk, face next to his, close enough to kiss. He smells smoke, ash, her cologne. Harley's fingers shift and he winces at the spike of involuntary pleasure. 

"You look like you want to say  _ please, please _ ," she whispers, soft and tender as a lover. "Will you beg if you get your mouth back?" Blake answers her with a glare and an angry shake of his head. "That's it. Right there, Harley. Harder on that spot."

Harley's fingers are relentless and Blake tells himself he's not rocking back on them, making Harley's job easier. He's trying to get away from that driving touch, so intense it borders on painful. It takes longer, drug or no drug, he's not a teenager any more. It gives him plenty of time to listen to Joker’s murmured instructions, soothing threats, promises of what’s coming. He can feel the tension in Harley’s body in the rough thrusts and twists of his fingers, feel how much Harley wants it to be his cock inside instead. By the time the tension snaps he doesn’t have any fight left in him, sagging against the desk and shaking as Harley drives him through aftershocks that make him scream against the gag.

Blake's sobbing helplessly when Harley's fingers slip out. "You're right, boss." Harley's tone is amused, impressed. "He's much more relaxed now."

“Sometimes it just takes patience and a steady hand,” Joker says with amusement, stroking Blake’s hair like he’s an obedient pet. She raises Blake’s head, slips the cash out from under his chin, wraps her fingers gently around his throat and squeezes, just enough that he has to work for the breath he’s getting. “I think you have at least another round in you, Detective. Harley will have his turn, then you’re  _ mine _ .”

_ Mine _ echoes around his head, makes his knees go weak. He can’t think of anything she’d do to him that he’d fight in this moment, weak kneed and vulnerable and open. Blake feels something terrifyingly close to gratitude, and all he can do is blink slowly at her, lower his chin in the smallest nod. She laughs, and laughs, and behind him he hears the soft sound of Harley’s zipper, and he feels a hand tighten painfully on his hip.

“You just relax and enjoy this now,” Joker coaxes softly. “It’s not like you can do anything else."


	7. Uncontrollable

Blake remembers distantly having a conversation about these kind of fantasies with two good friends. People he would trust to share those private, dark thoughts with. No matter how much he described, imagined, played it over in his own mind, it was not what's happening now.

It was better.

Or worse.

He couldn't keep those two straight in his mind any more.

None of his fantasies had prepared him for the intense immediate  _ reality _ of what he was experiencing here, or how much he would physically react to it. Fantasies were safe, and however dark they were, soft edged. Controllable. There’s nothing he can control here. He opens and closes his bound hands, struggles against the cuffs, yells behind the tape. Joker takes it all in with an amused, private smile behind a stream of smoke. 

He knows he’s going to dream about her eyes watching him for weeks. Isn’t sure if those dreams will be nightmares.

He’s frantically grateful for her orders to Harley and resentful of them at the same time. He’s open, messy with enough thick lube that Harley’s way is easy enough. Harley isn’t fucking him like he’s someone with an opinion. Briefly, Blake feels some sympathy for his own right hand. He’s experiencing what it’s like to be driven into as a means to an end, and god, it’s a breathless feeling.

Harley makes a soft sound close to a snarl and shoves Blake’s head down against the desk, his weight heavy on Blake’s back. Blake shudders, tries to be still, takes each punishing thrust with uncontrollable twitches of his hips. It feels like it goes on forever, and his world narrows down to each stroke, every desperate, raw sound Harley makes. He can feel every facet and curve of every piece of jewelry he’s pressed against. Can smell Joker’s cigarette, his own sweat, his own frantic desperation.

He knows it’s useless to try and escape, but as it goes on Blake finds himself squirming away, digging his knees into the desk, fumbling uselessly with his bound hands. Tries to push Harley’s stomach away. Apparently, the man fucking into him has been waiting for this for a long time, if the ferocity which he ignores Blake’s struggles with is any indication. He’s not letting one kitten weak, bound cop get between him and his climax. 

Blake is fighting in earnest now, his pulse pounding in his ears, his throat. His whole skin feels alive, overheated, and he’s getting close, so close. He can see the edge just ahead, and he’s dreading that moment when he’s going to tip over. His body’s about to confirm everything Joker’s whispered to him about enjoying this, wanting this,  _ needing _ it.

Harley thrusts deep and goes still with a ragged cry against his back. His hips stutter in jerky thrusts. He sounds agonized. 

Blake freezes at the pulses of wetness, deep inside him. 

Harley’s done. He isn’t.

Blake should be relieved, shouldn’t he?

Instead, he presses his forehead against the desk, screws his eyes shut tight, tries not to cry. Tries to hide from his own body’s demands that  _ someone  _ finish this,  _ now.  _ He lets out a soft, defeated whimper behind the tape, feels Joker’s gentle hands in his hair. She lifts his face, studies it carefully. 

Apparently, she likes what she sees as Harley pulls out, gives his hole a rough wipe with uncaring fingers, rubs some of the mess off with a piece of cloth.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Joker asks, knowing heat in her gaze. Blake breaks, trembling, tears streaming down his face as he sobs behind the tape, trying to chase the too-brief touch. “Do you think you’d say  _ please _ now, Detective?”


	8. Relentless

“Go clean up. I can handle him for a bit,” Joker says to Harley. Blake wishes he could wipe off his face, wishes he could use his hands. Wishes a little desperately that his body wasn’t thrumming, tight as a wire with aching need. He wishes he’d stayed home tonight, as Joker’s cool fingertips move down his spine.

There are so many things he wants, and they all conflict with each other. He feels the icy whisper of a piece of silk, lightly brushing over one shoulder and then the other, bringing out his skin in goosebumps. He shudders and makes a small sound. 

“You’re a mess,” She murmurs softly. The next time the silk brushes his skin, it has the pressure of her strong fingers behind it. She wipes the sweat off his back in firm strokes, then he feels the delicate pressure of her fingers at his entrance. He makes a muffled noise of protest, tries to jerk away, but they slide in effortlessly after Harley’s intrusion.

Unlike Harley, Joker seeks out his prostate with almost surgical precision, aiming her touch in a way that makes his oversensitive nerves light up with fire. Blake clenches his hands into tight fists and jerks helplessly at the cuffs, trying to make it  _ stop _ , trying to back away from the climax he so desperately wants.

“Shh, you’re being unreasonable,” she coaxes. “I’m just finishing Harley’s work for him.” Blake shakes his head violently and tries to rise up on his toes, get away from that relentless touch. Behind him, Joker makes a thoughtful sound. Blake breathes raggedly, stares at the badly painted wall across from him, his thoughts a perfect blank when her fingers slip out. He tries to count details in the room, but it’s impossible. It could be his office in his apartment, for everything he’s noticing. One dying plant, in need of water. A window with a view out to a brick wall. An old swivel office chair, gray. Dented filing cabinet. Faded calendar, pinned to 2 months ago. 

Something blunt and hard presses against the back of his thigh, and Blake’s focus snaps back to what’s going on behind him. It’s hard to get a sense of the shape, since he can’t turn his head to look and she’s deliberately playing with him. A wide, blunt point, sharp flare out from there. Flat bottom. Whatever it is, it’s big, and Blake doesn’t want to know what it’ll feel like inside him. (He’s dying to know. Anything is better than this anxious, drawn out waiting.) 

There’s no click of a cap, no unscrewing of a jar. He supposes dully he’s plenty open and slick enough, between Harley’s over generous application and the mess from the man’s climax.

Blake’s never liked toys. They feel clinical, impersonal, especially if he’s trying to use them in the quiet emptiness of his bed. What Joker’s doing to him feels very, very personal, however. It feels more invasive than Harley’s cock did, stretching him open with relentless pressure. He arches his back, moves his hips forward, tries to do anything he can to relieve the spreading burn of it. Nothing he does slows or quickens Joker’s pace. This isn’t being fucked for someone else’s pleasure. He knows that it’s not exactly for his pleasure, either. It’s a humiliation, a challenge. One more thing to add to the night’s indignities, along with the tape over his mouth, the pill, the scrawled smile.

Blake’s body finally accepts the toy, closing tight around the narrower base, and he makes a choked off sound as Joker takes the flared end and shifts it inside him. She changes the angle, finds the right spot, shoves it forward with the flat of her hand. Blake sees stars, makes a frantic, pleading sound, tries to scrabble back from the edge and instead falls off of it. His hips jerk as he rides waves of painful spasms, his body wrung out, stomach aching from each intense pulse. 

She makes a soft, satisfied hum, smacks his ass lightly with a hand, and goes back to her side of the desk. She sits down, studies his face, and then reaches forward, jerking the tape off in a sharp gesture that makes his mouth burn. Blake gasps for his first full breath of the night, stares at her, opens his mouth to speak, closes it again.

“Enjoying yourself?” She asks softly, low and dangerous.

“No.” Blake croaks reflexively. There’s still a fine trembling through his thighs. His stomach is painted with the sticky, still warm evidence of his pleasure. He can’t meet her eyes, and looks away, face burning. His voice comes out as a rough whisper. “Stop. Please, just stop.”

Joker slips a fingertip under his chin, raises his face. Forces him to meet her eyes. He’s stuffed full and stretched open by the plug, but her gaze is far more penetrating. Her voice is a soft, deadly whisper. 

“Say that again, if you mean it, Blake.” Blake sees an escape route, an exit. A clear path out of this room, away from those cruel, clever fingers and all these games that burn and ache and excite. He surprises himself with the acid response that comes out of his mouth just as Harley re-enters the room.

“Fuck you, and fuck off.” He snarls, fighting with his trapped ankles, the cuffs on his wrist, the plug spreading him open.

Joker laughs with clear delight, her head thrown back. She puts her feet back up on the desk, crosses her ankles, retrievers her lighter and lights another smoke. “Oh, I was hoping you’d say that. That’s wonderful. God, you’re  _ perfect  _ at this, Blake.”

_ What the fuck did he just do? _


End file.
